


Overture

by Lupa_Eira



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: M/M, Movie: The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 11:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21196958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lupa_Eira/pseuds/Lupa_Eira
Summary: Clarice Starling is assigned to talk to Hannibal. She consults with Will Graham, first.





	Overture

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my computer for ages. Hope you enjoy!

Clarice Starling pulled up a long, winding drive in the middle of Wolf Trap, Virginia. The chill in the air would have prompted most to wear a hat and gloves; she opted only for the latter. The truth was that the air made her head clear. Fall was honest and direct in Virginia, and Clarice had always been inclined to bluntness.

She walked up to Will Graham’s porch and felt, in the worn care of the stairs and the authenticity of the paint, that here lived a familiar kind of man. The kind who grew up working with his hands and never forgot it, even when he came into the kind of wealth that could afford acres of farmland like this and didn't have to farm. She smelled the motor oil and dog fur in the air, the instant coffee and the fish, all trappings of things she understood. Reaching out her right hand―gloved in knit, not leather―to rap at the door, Clarice knew she had made the right choice to wear her old flannel, visible over the top of her plain but serviceable coat. 

No one came to the door except a few dogs, panting, excited to have a visitor. Crawford never told her Will Graham was a dog lover. Hoarder, more like. Clarice counted at least five through the screen.

No one answered the door, but there was a car in the driveway, she had been fairly certain. As Clarice turned around to check, she was startled―Will Graham, face blank, standing a few steps beyond the porch. She had not heard his approach, and the easy way he stood indicated he had been standing there for a moment, watching her fidget slightly with her feet. The thought soured the back of her throat; she had intended to look professional but woodsy, not girlish. 

“Mr. Graham, my name is Clarice Starling. May I speak with you?” Her voice was firm, with a carefully suppressed-but-not-too-suppressed accent. She was proud.

Will Graham looked her up and down with a flick of his eyes. Nothing sexual, just assessing, but there was an intuition, located somewhere on the skin of her forearms, that made the hair rise in wariness. She was glad for the coat.

“You're one of Jack’s,” he said. It was jarring. No one Clarice knew called Crawford “Jack”, and everything about Graham―his worn flannel and boots covered in mud, his work gloves coated in motor oil, the slight southern drawl that still blurred some of his words―was familiar, was understandable, but she had a sudden, clear certainty that nothing about him, down to his facial expressions and his eyes, could be taken at face value. She had absolutely no idea what he was thinking.

_ Forward, then. _

“Yes, I am,” she said. “I'm in training at the Academy, sir.” Something about that amused him. 

“Well, Miss Starling, suffice to say that Jack doesn't have anything that could interest me anymore. Save us both time and get us out of the cold. Go back to Quantico.”

“Crawford doesn't know I'm here, Mr. Graham,” Clarice bravely continued. “I'm here about Dr. Lecter.”

“Most of my unannounced visitors are. I'm not interested in bolstering a poorly thought-out thesis.”

“Mr. Graham, Crawford assigned me to talk to Hannibal Lecter in Baltimore.” _ There_, she thought as Will Graham went completely still. “Crawford warned me not to tell him anything personal. Said he was a monster.”

“He is, and he'll eat you alive,” Will agreed immediately. “And I do mean in every sense. Jack’s a fool for sending you and you're a fool for agreeing to go.”

“Frankly, Mr. Graham, I think Crawford’s playing several games at once―”

“He usually is.”

“―and I can't go in there without a better understanding of why.”

“Alana Bloom runs the BSHCI. She'd be more than happy to give you a rundown.”

“Mr. Graham, I think we both know you can give me details that Dr. Bloom can't.”

“If you got this address without Jack’s help, then you got it through Tattlecrime. Freddie Lounds doesn't pull punches to her readership, so no doubt you already think you know some details.” He stepped a little closer, serious, and Clarice’s mind furiously catalogued his famous facial scars―on his forehead, on his jaw. “I really must ask you to leave, Miss Starling. I won't be able to help you talk safely to Hannibal Lecter. No one can.”

Will Graham watched the young Clarice Starling leave in her beat-up car. She was capable, used to work, intelligent, and perceptive, he could tell. Like Miriam Lass. Like he had been, once. She was too smart not to pique Hannibal's interest in some way. No doubt that was why Jack was sending her, even with the “nothing personal” warning to assuage some preemptive guilt. 

Will sighed, and walked back to his shed. Working on the boat motor would not keep his mind off Hannibal―nothing did, not anymore―but the work was simple, tedious, and filled up the time well enough. He managed to keep his mind sufficiently occupied for the better part of an hour before the inevitable crept back into his brain. Once the rattling got too loud, he simply got up and followed it.

Will thought about Hannibal often. He did not worry about him anymore.

After greeting his dogs, he took the letter from where it had been placed, unceremoniously but purposely, upon the fireplace mantle. The edges were only slightly worn. He had not read it often, and nor did he plan to. After this read, no doubt he would light a fire and burn it, like all the rest.

The paper was of much better quality than standard prison stationary. Alana did allow Hannibal his little dignities.

_ Dearest Will, _

_ There is no regret, there is only the waiting. I have several ways to mark the passing of the seasons, but the knowledge of your habits is the one that continues to occupy me. No doubt by now you are readying for fall―the summer fishers will be leaving their warm-weather pastimes, and soon there will only be you, escaping to the quiet of the stream. We only need our minds for such things, but there is something to be said for in-person experiences. _

_ I could never forget your face, your body, but sometimes there is a blurring of texture in the memory, ever-so-slight, like blood diluted by water. When we emerged from the cliffside, and all boundaries between us were blurred by blood and seawater, I did not know your skin half so well. The idea of reversion without negentropy is displeasing. _

_ Perhaps tonight you will go out into the dark of the fields, and leave all the lights off. You no longer have need of a lighthouse. _

_ Yours, _

_ Hannibal Lecter _

Will felt all the myriad conflict of emotion within himself―the flinch at being seen as he was, the anger at the passive-aggressiveness, the longing, even now, to be at Hannibal’s side. Still, he did not let himself run his eyes down the letter but twice more before he lit a fire and placed the letter, with only slight ceremony, into the flames. Will sighed. He debated calling Jack, but no, Jack would simply take the opportunity to get him involved. Whatever case Jack was working on, young Clarice was surely being used as bait for Hannibal's help.

Tonight, he would go out into the fields with the dogs, but he would leave the lights off.


End file.
